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  Gossip from the Forest

  A Novel

  Thomas Keneally

  TO MY FATHER

  In the season in which this book

  was written, the French government

  persisted in exploding nuclear devices

  above the ocean where my children swim.

  PART ONE

  JOURNEYS AND ARRIVALS

  FEAR OF TRAINS AND FORESTS

  On Wednesday afternoon, at his headquarters in Senlis, the Marshal had a visit from the Premier of France. They read through the agenda of the meeting in the forest. When that business was finished, the Premier wanted to chat. The Marshal could tell that the old man was secretly seeking reassurance. In spite of that need, the Premier did not abandon his tone of mocking.

  They sat by the fire in the Marshal’s office on the ground floor. The Marshal’s armies went forward up every main and country road. Although they were not used to such movement they had no need to appeal to him. Therefore few staff and liaison officers infested the park, no staff limousines cluttered the gravel under the terraces. Without hard-driven generals to salute, the chasseurs at the main steps kept a sleepy watch all afternoon. It was quiet enough and dim enough in the drizzling park to throw the nightjars into disorder. They sat in a birch tree from noon onward, calling endlessly.

  The old Marshal and older Premier could have been two semi-friends in front of a fire in a first-class convalescent home.

  Clemenceau: Then how far will your train be from theirs?

  The Marshal: I’ve never seen the place myself. But they tell me sixty meters or so. There’s a siding for rail-mounted cannon. We’ll take that, they can have the main line.

  Clemenceau: In a train … in a forest …

  The Marshal: That’s right.

  Clemenceau: Be careful of forests, my Marshal. Forests are full of omens. Ivy, for example. It’s the symbol of womanhood. It cleans the forest floors. It keeps down the corpses of the autumns. It keeps down fallen deer. And robins. And soldiers …

  The Marshal played a second with his mustache. He was accustomed to the Premier’s bad taste and artistic vanity.

  The Marshal: There aren’t any dead soldiers in that forest.

  Clemenceau: Be careful too of living in trains. The Kaiser spent a long time in his train this summer. One day he dreamed that the Queen of Norway pinned a rose to his collar. When he touched the rose with his finger tips, he found it was a bullet hole.

  The Marshal laughed at the idea that the Kaiser’s dream could with any accuracy be transshipped from sleep to awakening, and so from the Kaiser’s train to the War Office in Paris.

  The Marshal: I suppose your agents in Spa got the story from that drink waiter.

  Clemenceau: Yes, the Kaiser woke screaming and the waiter had to feed him schnapps. Waiters are always good value for agents. If they’d sell the best table in the restaurant for money they’d certainly sell their Emperor.

  The Marshal: I never paid waiters a cent. To me it was always a matter of determination.…

  Clemenceau: I always paid. Something tangible. Bluff is intangible. That’s the difference between us.

  The Marshal: I suppose it may be. There seem to be quite a few differences. In any case, I have no reason to be afraid of trains. Or forests.

  This pronouncement fortified the old man, or so the Marshal suspected. For soon after, the Premier called for his car and was driven back to the Senate in Paris.

  Early the next morning, however, the Marshal did awake aghast from a dream of forests. Walking amongst trees he had come on some young soldiers, informally lined up in a clearing. He had presumed that they were from Castelnau’s army group, resting for a future offensive in Lorraine. Those at the end of the queue were kicking a ball of rags about and stopped to salute him. At the head of the line three seated matrons worked at some task he could not identify. Their fervor reminded him of any bandage-rolling, sock-knitting committee in any town of the interior.

  As he came closer to them he saw that each was busy fixing, somehow, rich military ribbons to the foreheads of the soldiers. He noticed that up to the place where the three worked so heartily and—it had to be admitted—deftly, the soldiers were the normal horselaughing, catcalling crowd you’d find at a delousing station in a rest area. Once they had their oddly placed ribbons they kept silent, not one of them speaking to another.

  They abandoned their helmets and stripped their equipment away. They walked naked over the ivy, and the ribbons they had so easily accepted became bleeding wounds. He called to them. They didn’t care. The forest was full of quiet, seeking boys. Bloodied, they looked behind this and that elm. They were somber children returned to a playroom after a long winter. Behind the trees, somewhere, cunningly amongst leaves, were the utterly adequate toys of childhood.

  In the end all he could do was stride out of the woods, not looking either side at the mute boys who peopled it. Advancing on the woman in the center chair, he put a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t any fear, she knew her business and her right to be there.

  Woman: Good morning, my Marshal.

  It was his wife’s wide face looking up as he had seen it look up at the sun on summer holidays in Brittany, when the children would bring in blackberries and she would sit outside their summerhouse excising the stems of the fruit with a hand plump from child-making, child-raising, and honest submission.

  The Marshal: But what are you doing, Julie?

  The un-answer from her woke him. He lay in bed feeling, until he was properly awake, that she had somehow usurped him. Then he noticed that his bladder was full. He got out of his bed. There was a little moan, wind or thin rain, at the window. The oak trees in the garden pressed the dark hard up against the panes.

  Saying prayers for the dead he fetched the chamber pot and wet into it, standing.

  … and remember in Your mercy Lieutenant Germain Foch and Captain Bécourt Both of the cavalry, now in the fifth year of their deaths. Dead of high explosive in the war’s first summer. Hippophiles, cavaliers, innocents, dead before they found out the truth. That this war was not of the same species as all those others they studied at the École de Guerre. Amongst the shell fragments they had suffered a not unenviable delivery from knowledge, he thought. His framework had had to take in so much more knowledge that he had sometimes heard his ribs creak (though he never informed doctors or anyone else of it).

  His elder girl had now been a widow more than four years. And Julie and he four years sonless.

  The dream. The dream grew out of the conference he had had with the Premier yesterday. Downstairs.

  It made him feel more content about it to understand its external origins. To let it stop him sleeping was ridiculous. He owed his sleep to the nation. The flow of urine ceased. He covered the pot with a beaded cover and muttered.

  The Marshal: Guise, La Capelle, Fourmies, Chimay.

  It was the road his enemies would travel, seeking a truce. He had bid them down that road. Even through the insulation of the battle lines, he believed he could sense the aura of those Berlin delegates, detraining by now in Belgium. Bringing their slack wills to OHL.*

  And if this morning the German Emperor’s poisonous nightmare had entered the Marshal’s own bed and bitten him, it was a last and puny Prussian success. The toxin would not enter his nervous system. He would willfully exclude it. He felt sure, this autumn, that he could willfully exclude the venom of a mamba.

  He scratched himself and spoke as if someone were standing at the bed end.

  The Marshal: You must be mad. If y
ou think you can derail me so easily.

  Lying, he got the covers up over his ears. The room was full of the frozen stench of his bedtime pipe.

  *Oberste Herresleitung—German Supreme Headquarters, situated in Spa, Belgium.

  THE MARSHAL LISTENS TO CHASSEURS’ BOOTS

  A soldier woke him at six with coffee. Before he got his head off the pillow he was full of excitement. In the dim park of the Château of Senlis it still rained. He could hear the boots of the GQG† company of chasseurs marching to morning parade, past the orangery, around the ornamental fountain and up the length of the façade. That sound. Until 1914 it had been an audible statement of the battle will, it had some sacramental meaning, like church bells ringing, and what it said was élan, dash, volonté, will, cran, guts, cran, cran, cran. Army boots on gravel. The crisp, monotone background scoring of all the aphorisms he produced in the classrooms of the École Supérieure de Guerre in his academic years. If defeat can arise from moral causes so can victory.… A battle won is a battle in which one will not confess oneself beaten.… Victoire, c’est la volonté … Modern war knows but one argument, the tactical fact, battle.… War is in itself only a matter of maintaining harmonious proportion between the spiritual and bodily elements.… The spies sent by the Freemasons at the Ministry of War could go back to their chief and say, that Colonel Foch talks metaphysics! But the young officers understood and he would open the windows so they could hear the soldiers drilling in the yard of the École Militaire next door. The crunch of boots made his meaning palpable to the chosen men who took courses at the École Supérieure.

  The Freemasons at the Ministry of War said, he talks like a Jesuit—spiritual and bodily elements, acts of the will, faith—his brother’s a Jesuit. A dangerous bastard. And popular with those fledgling staff officers.

  Tall, amorous, peasant boy Colonel Pétain used to question whether Modern war knew only one argument, the tactical fact, battle. He cited high explosives, muzzle velocities, enfilading machine guns. He’d said, they’re the tactical facts. It was because Pétain was a melancholy and edgy farm boy that he raised these points. He’d been right, but through a defect of temperament. In the Marshal’s eyes, defects of temperament were no excuse for being right.

  What did it mean to the Marshal today when GQG Company B noisily occupied the carriageway and the courtyard and squared off in the rain for inspection? This morning the tactical, strategic, political, simple fact was: he was the most powerful man in the world. This afternoon he would take a train ride. At the end of which he would lay down all the precedents for a new world.

  † GQG—Grand Quartier Général. That is, GHQ.

  THE TITANS OF THE HOME FRONT

  He had already imposed precedents on the titans of the home front. To detail his art in this area would take too long. But something of his manner toward statesmen should be marked down.

  Throughout the autumn he spent his mornings above the Quai d’Orsay, inside or outside a small conference room on the second floor of the War Office, where only the few more powerful met. Old Clemenceau and the Welsh Prime Minister of Britain. Colonel House, the American representative, and the Foreign Minister of Italy.

  Whenever the Marshal was invited to speak in this room, old Clemenceau would rest in his chair, content that French interests were now being stated or overstated. The Premier’s Kirghiz eyes shifted, brooding on the river beyond the high windows. Some of the autumn haze entered his face. A Mongolian horseman dreams of the steppes, the Marshal would think ironically. The Marshal noticed too that because of the thick glass of the windows, and the autumn vapors hanging over Paris, the angle of the river he could himself see from the conference table resembled urban rivers as they were painted by the Impressionists, by the Premier’s old prostate-ridden familiar and master spirit, Monet. Nature going to a lot of trouble to imitate Monet’s art. Too much trouble.

  While the Premier drowsed in this way, the Marshal would tell the foreign few that the enemy must give up not only the Rhineland but four bridgeheads, thirty kilometers deep, on the far side of the great river. The debate was always complicated, but never from his side, for he always stated the same argument and said, you ask me what is strategically necessary to demand. This (tapping the map), this is strategically necessary.

  And whether it was or was not the map of a strategic necessity, it was the outline of what was psychically necessary to the Marshal. At a given depth of his soul, where distinctions between military and diplomatic business had no meaning, he had decided he could not sleep if this map was not fleshed out across the forests, coal fields, foundries, sweet valleys in western Germany.

  If his argument was simple, his acting out of the argument had many strands to it. He had a gift for looking at times as if his will (or the Holy Spirit) were swelling him, that he might at any instant levitate or explode like a bladder. Sometimes he would pound his horizon-blue hip so emphatically that those at table could not help becoming a little alarmed in case their generalissimo gave himself a blood clot.

  When the hairy Welsh satyr (called Lloyd George) accused him of trying to gag statesmen in debate about the bridgeheads, he could knead his jaws or paw the arms of his plush chair in a gesture of overbearing contrition which seemed to satisfy, above all, to silence everyone.

  In fact, his conversations with politicians appeared in transcript to be howling melodrama. So that statesmen, reading over their notes after interviews with the Marshal, often thought, how did we tolerate such behavior, such bombast, such bathos?

  They had forgotten how the prophetic fever in the man had seduced them. He made them suspect that if they let themselves float they could be as unqualified and certain as he. It was like offering an exhausted businessman a holiday in the south.

  PERILOUS TO HEALTH AND SANITY

  The Marshal could also pretend to find British demands concerning the German fleet to be perilous to health and sanity.

  Lloyd George would sometimes bring with him a square and meaty British admiral called Wemyss. He was an aristocratic presence, very genial. When Wemyss sat at his side, the Welshman nagged the cabinet room about what was to be done to Germany’s navy. All German submarines were to surrender, the High Seas Fleet was to be interned and stripped of arms.

  Whenever Lloyd George brought up these naval terms, the Marshal took fire, clutched the rim of the table as if invisible tides of folly, set in motion by the Welshman, were about to swirl him off his chair, out the door, down the steps, across the foyer and so on.

  The High Seas Fleet hadn’t put to sea for two years. Did the Prime Minister of Britain want our soldiers to go on dying just because the enemy would not give up a fleet that never put to sea?

  The Welshman of course pursued, defined, ranted. But the marginal imputation hung over him: that his demands were unbalanced, that he had a sickness of the mind about ships. Meanwhile the Marshal could direct looks at his blotter. What he told his blotter was the old story: the Welshman is descending to particulars. We’ll … I’ll … impose our intentions on the enemy. Wholesale.

  THE MARSHAL AND THE CALVINIST TEXAN

  One other of his contacts with statesmen is worth recording. Sometimes in the afternoons of late October or early November 1918 he was required to go out to the Supreme War Council, who had convened beneath chandeliers in the dining hall of the Trianon palace. Here Colonel House, a small chinless Texan, struggled to retain the mildness, the unvengefulness of the Fourteen Point peace plan his President had uttered earlier in the year. His task was like that of persuading wolves and tigers to take up a vegetarian diet.

  Yet President Wilson was Europe’s angel of reconciliation. Even the left-wing deputies in the German Reichstag praised him on the floor of the house during debates. His voice, his incarnation in Paris, this Colonel House certainly wasn’t a military colonel, but was, at least, remote, seemly, no cowboy. The Marshal suspected there was Indian in him, he had high Mongolian cheekbones. Apart from that he looked like someone yo
u’d find driving an elevator in a very good family hotel.

  One afternoon, in the dining hall, he asked the Marshal this question: if the enemy does not give in to an armistice, how long would it be before our armies got to the Rhine?

  The Marshal told him four months, five. His troops weren’t used to fast advances and tended to be needlessly delayed by the screens of elite machine gunners the enemy threw in their tracks. He, in the meantime, had demanded that troops be trained to bypass, infiltrate. But still, four months, five …

  House: It would be a great victory—to drive them all the way back to the Rhine.

  The little Mongolian face suggested: and you’d be the victor and honored forever. So why should you want to end the war? Therefore why should you lead the armistice powwow?

  None the less the Marshal knew that this Texas (perhaps Comanche!) Calvinist had smelt out the most dangerous lust he carried within him. Even now, in the fifth year, his creativity cried out for a war of movement, for making a gap without losing 150,000 men, for having reserves to exploit it. By next spring there would be two million American soldiers in France.

  The war had so far been a Satanic denial of talent and fire. And now that it had become possible to make war in a Napoleonic manner he was told to make a truce instead. The Marshal had now to force cease-fire terms not only on the nations but on his creative lust.

  But he wouldn’t admit all that to a Calvinist Texan.

  FERRASON SAYS HE WILL TEACH

  The Marshal told the orderly to put down the razor and ring a bell connecting his dressing room to the operations section downstairs. In answer, after half a minute, a young officer entered the dressing room, saluting. Clever Major Ferrason. Less than thirty. Would have been a general by now if he’d been in the field. Or else dead.

  The Marshal: Situation, Ferrason! Situation?